Forever Midnight

by Kate Hill

  Chocolate brown eyes gazed at him. A tender smile tugged the corners of her full lips. “Mr. Whittle, how are you feeling, sir?”

  His brow furrowed. Pierce sat up on the large four-poster bed. Glancing at the clock on the mantel across the room, he saw it was seven—in the morning, by the look at the sunlight pouring in through the open window. Horrible for a hangover. His head was about to explode.

  “Sir?”

  “Good. I’m good. How did you get in here?”

  “I work here, sir. It’s Maggie.”

  “Maggie?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This is Whittle House?”

  She smiled, appearing relieved. The covers had fallen down to his waist, and she pulled them up, but not before her gaze swept his torso. A glance downward and he nearly leapt off the bed. That wasn’t the body he remembered. It wasn’t bad—a little short for his taste, but well-muscled.

  The door opened and a round-faced man wearing a smile and a shrewd though likeable expression approached. He wore a white shirt, vest, and—what the hell kind of pants were those?

  “He’s having another of his spells.” Maggie turned to the man with a concerned expression. “He doesn’t recognize me again.”

  “Again?” Pierce’s gaze switched from Maggie to the newcomer who dragged a chair near the bedside. Panic threatened, but he held it at bay. Though everything seemed strange, there was also something familiar about his two companions.

  The man sat on the chair, his gaze holding Pierce’s. “Samuel, do you know me?”

  When Pierce didn’t reply, his visitor and Maggie exchanged concerned looks.

  “It’s Paul. You escaped last night. I’ve already started working on stronger cuffs. Don’t worry, you won’t get out again.”

  “Get out? My name’s Pierce.”

  Maggie gasped, her eyes wide, and clamped a hand over her mouth.

  Paul grinned. “Don’t be alarmed, Maggie. He hasn’t lost his mind completely. Back in the early days, a bunch of us called him that because he was sure to pierce whatever he aimed his rifle at. He was one of the best marksmen we had. Want to go by that old nickname again? Fine. I’ll play along. I’ll tell you, Samuel Whittle, you sure know how to stir up old memories.”

  Samuel Whittle. That was just a story. A werewolf story told by…who had told him? The dream seemed so far off. Nightmare was more like it. There had been tall buildings—ugly and gray—and metal arcs rolling down black streets. It made him shiver just thinking about it.

  “Samuel?” Paul rested a firm hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  “How can he be all right?” Maggie sighed. “He’s just spent the entire night running around the countryside. He’s lucky he didn’t catch his death being caught in that snowstorm without so much as a stitch of clothes after the fur faded.”

  “Fur? Oh, God.” Samuel—Pierce—whoever the hell he was, clutched his head in his hands. “It’s true. The werewolf…”

  “Didn’t harm anyone,” Paul told him. “A few sheep were killed at a farm last night, but that was all.”

  “I can’t believe this is real.”

  “I know. You always have memory lapses after the beast comes.” Maggie opened a chest of drawers and brought him a clean shirt, breeches, and a waistcoat. “It’s amazing you’re able to retain any semblance of humanity at all.”

  “It’s getting harder, though, isn’t it?” Paul asked.

  “Y…yes.” Samuel reached for the clothes. An important memory filled his mind. Washington’s secret weapon. “What year is it? Is the war over?”

  Again Paul and Maggie glanced at one another, sympathy in their expressions.

  “Yes, it’s over.” Paul told him. “We’re free.”

  Nodding, Samuel pulled on the shirt.

  “You remember the battles, then?” Paul inquired.

  “Yes. A bit.”

  “You were a great help, once you managed to harness that power of yours.”

  “I don’t think I can harness it.”

  “That’s why I’ve fashioned the cuffs. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Paul stood and left the room. Reaching for his breeches, Samuel’s gaze fixed on Maggie who stared at him with those deep brown eyes. Something in her expression reached out and clasped his soul in a manner both comforting and unsettling. A sheepish smile touched the corners of his mouth. “If you would give me some privacy?”

  “Of course, sir.” She moistened her lips and dropped into a quick curtsy. When she reached the door, she glanced over her shoulder and said, “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

  “Maggie, before you go, what year is it?”

  Her expression softened even more. “It’s 1785, sir.”

  She left, closing the door behind her. The woman made his blood catch fire. His pulse quickened just from the look in her eyes and the curves of her breasts and hips beneath the plain servant’s gown she wore.

  He pulled on the breeches. Using the basin of water on the table by the bed, he cleaned his teeth and face, then stepped into the hall.

  Sounds from downstairs caught his attention and he followed them. Paul sat on a chair by the fire, examining a pair of sterling silver manacles. As Samuel approached, he glanced at the familiar ancestral portraits on the wall across the room.

  “Here they are.” Paul held out the cuffs. “Far stronger than the last pair. And the silver is of the finest quality, guaranteed to subdue the beast better than anything else.”

  Samuel took the cuffs and ran his hands over them. “These are worth a fortune.”

  “Priceless to you.” Paul grinned. Standing, he clapped a hand on his taller friend’s shoulder. Though Samuel couldn’t fully remember who Paul was, by the way the man spoke and acted, he guessed they had known each other for quite awhile and even served together during the war. Paul’s offering of the handcuffs revealed that he must be a silversmith, too. “I need to get back to Boston. It’s been a fine week visiting, but I can’t stay here forever. Will you be all right? It can’t be easy running this entire household alone.”

  “He has me.” Maggie stepped into the parlor, a tea tray in her hands.

  “Dear Maggie.” Paul shook his head. “The only one brave enough to stay in the cursed Whittle House.”

  “The only one?” Samuel held her gaze.

  “You won’t get rid of me, sir,” she said in a hushed voice that held implications he didn’t miss. “That’s for certain.”

  Samuel nodded, the lingering look he shared with his maid disturbed by Paul clearing his throat loudly.

  “Are you sure you won’t stay for tea, sir?” Maggie asked their guest who had donned his cloak.

  “No. I really must not waste the day. Luck to you, my friend.” Paul winked and clasped Samuel’s hand. “Pierce.”

  Samuel smiled and watched as Paul left the house. Moments later, hoofbeats thudded on the snowy ground as the silversmith rode away.

  Maggie rested the tea tray on the table by the fire. “Would you like eggs, sir?”

  “I’d like you to sit down and join me.”

  She drew a sharp breath. “Join you, sir? Isn’t that inappropriate?”

  “Seeing how you’re the only person willing to live with me, I don’t believe it is.”

  “Well, if you put it that way, sir.”

  “Stop calling me sir. I’m Samuel.”

  “Samuel, yes. Earlier, when you called yourself Pierce, I had the strangest feeling.”

  “Why?” His interest piqued. In spite of his attachment to the nickname, he couldn’t remember the circumstances that inspired it that Paul had found so amusing.

  “I don’t know. It’s like something out of a dream, a memory.”

  “Maybe it’s from the old days with Paul?”

  “No, sir. I’ve only worked here for the past three years. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d have been on the streets.”

  “You have no family?” Why the hell couldn’t he remember all the deta
ils he should know?

  “No, sir. After my husband was killed at Yorktown, I lost our farm. You saved my life when you hired me.”

  “And how many times since have you saved mine?”

  She smiled, casting her gaze down. “A man with your powers doesn’t need saving.”

  “Except, perhaps, my soul?”

  Her gaze met his and he could almost sense her desire to touch him. He felt the same. Still, it would be out of place, wouldn’t it? To take advantage of a servant?

  “If anything had happened to you, sir—”

  “Samuel.” He cupped her face in his hand.

  “I can’t.” She stood and drew a deep breath. Beneath the fitted top of her brown dress, her breasts swelled. Desire stirred Samuel’s belly. He reached for her, but she slipped from his touch and hurried to the kitchen, calling, “I’ll have your eggs ready soon.”

  For several moments he wandered around the room, collecting himself. Now that he’d been awake for awhile, everything finally made sense—at least as much sense as his twisted life could make. He remembered that night so long ago when, alone and barely recovered from his battle-injury, he’d struggled down the snowy road away from his father’s house—this house.

  Samuel believed in the cause. Still, he’d badly wanted to make peace with his father. The old man would have no part of it. He’d despised Samuel and his decisions until his dying breath.

  “Ungrateful whelp,” his father had rasped upon Samuel’s arrival at his bedside. “You’re not just disloyal to the King, but to me. I must die soon but I hope you live a long life and every moment of it be in misery.”

  The wolf had attacked him that night and left him bleeding in the snow. As he lost consciousness, Samuel thought he would die as well, but had awakened healed and stronger than ever before. At first he thought it was a miracle, proof from God that his father’s hatred didn’t extend unto heaven. Several nights later, he learned the horrible truth. When the moon rose full in the sky, Samuel was stricken with agony such as he’d never known. Pain soon faded into power and a savage, insatiable hunger that sent him chasing after any creature that pumped blood. He’d killed men that night. Hessian soldiers. However, they might have been his own. The lust for flesh and blood was so strong that for many months it overshadowed reason. Eventually he was able to retain some memories of his life as a man. With the help of a few trusted friends, he learned to focus his violence. Few knew the part he played in the Revolution’s battles. Some whispered rumors surfaced about a wolfish creature that cleaned its teeth and claws on anyone who opposed the rebellion. Most considered it a story to frighten the enemy.

  If only that were true.

  Samuel drew a deep breath and released it.

  After the war, he’d retired to his father’s house, now empty but for the servants. The war was over, but the curse lingered. Servants began talking of a wild beast roaming the woods outside the mansion. Dead animals and a maid and stable hand terrified in the midst of a midnight romp sent the servants into a panic. By the third full moon after Samuel’s return, he’d lost his entire staff, except for Maggie. He thought for certain she would go as well, especially when talk started in the town about the young widow being the sole servant in the household of a wealthy and—according to the villagers—handsome man.

  Samuel had to admit to some truth in what they said. For months he’d done his best to ignore her soul-searching eyes and voluptuous curves. He tried not to relish the beauty of her smooth brown skin and full lips just made for kissing. There was no denying the way she looked at him, as well. Just that morning hadn’t she stared far too long at his bare chest?

  Perhaps it was the desperation of two lonely people, the natural urge for sexual gratification when neither had the opportunity to sate it, but keeping his hands off her suddenly seemed impossible.

  He strode to the kitchen where Maggie had cracked eggs into a frying pan heating on the big black stove.

  Upon seeing him, she appeared startled. “The eggs will be a few more minutes, sir.”

  “To hell with the eggs, Maggie.” He stood so close that he saw the ultra-fine lines on her lovely lips. Her gaze met his. The rise and fall of her breasts was enough to harden his cock and quicken his pulse. “I want to ask you something.”

  She nodded, swallowing visibly. Perhaps some part of the wolf still lingered, for he caught the enticing scent of her arousal. An image of their faces close, their mouths nearly brushing, filled his mind.

  “I’ve almost kissed you recently, haven’t I?”

  “Sir, please.” She turned back to the pan, but he took her face in his hands and forced her to look at him. “Yes. You have—almost.”

  “What stopped us?”

  “Besides the fact that it’s not permitted? I’m your servant.”

  “You’re my friend.”

  “But—”

  “Why have you stayed here, Maggie?”

  “Because I’ve nowhere else to go, especially now.”

  “Especially since you’ve been loyal to me?”

  “Yes, sir. No one in the village so much as speaks to me, let alone considers allowing me in their household.”

  “But you could have gone with the others.”

  “And who would take care of you?”

  He laughed. “Am I a child?”

  “No, sir, but—”

  “Why have you stayed, Maggie? Please. I must know.” Expelling a long, slow breath, he tilted her face to his. “Forgive me. It’s just that I have so many pieces in my mind and I’m trying to make them fit.”

  “It’ll come back, sir. It always does—at least for a while. Then the closer you get to the full moon—”

  “The more my thoughts drift from reality.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s the beast in you. Sometimes, really close to the full moon, you frighten me, but…”

  He turned his gaze to her, waiting, his entire body tense. The scent of her excitement was almost a tangible thing. “But what?”

  “It thrills me too.” Her words were hushed and speedy, but he heard them and a strange feeling warmed him from the inside out. All his memories might not be clear, but one thing he knew without doubt. He loved this woman.

  “Maggie…” His hands slid down her back and grasped her waist as he tugged her closer.

  Her eyes half-closed as she leaned forward the slightest bit. Their lips met. At first it was a warm brushing of flesh. Then his arms tightened around her and he applied more pressure.

  She moaned softly and slid her hands up his back, her small, strong fingers gripping the taut muscles. She felt and tasted so good.

  Her lips parted beneath his tongue. Hers darted out to meet it. They caressed one another with warm, wet strokes. His rock-hard cock was trapped between their bodies. How he longed to raise her skirt and bury himself to the hilt in her pussy. He knew by her scent that it was slick and damp, well-prepared with the evidence of her lust.

  Maggie stood on tiptoe to better reach him. She freed his thick, dark hair from the ribbon at his nape. It flowed through her fingers. Samuel’s eyes closed tightly and he lost himself in sensation. She tasted sweet and hot. Her splendid curves crushed against his body’s hard planes stirred his lust like nothing he remembered.

  The thud of hoofbeats on snow roused them from their desirous stupor.

  “I should see who it is,” she said, gazing up at him with those enormous brown eyes still hazy with passion.

  “I’ll see.” He rubbed her arms, warming them with his hands, before heading to the door on which someone relentlessly pounded.

  Outside, Paul looked frantic.

  “I thought you were returning to Boston?” Samuel asked.

  “I was, but I came upon the townsfolk. They’re on their way here and are furious about the ravaged sheep. Hide the cuffs and collect yourself. Deny everything, as always.”

  Samuel turned to the parlor where he’d left the cuffs on the table, but Maggie already had them in
her hands. She hurried to the fireplace, removed a loose brick, and hid the cuffs behind it.

  The sound of more galloping horses filled the snowy morning and a small group of men, armed with muskets, came into view.

  “Good thing I made it here in time,” Paul whispered.

  “Yes, by the look of them.” Samuel stared at the approaching party.

  “Where were you last night?” demanded the man in the lead. He was tall, silver-haired with a hawkish nose and a stern expression in his close-set eyes.

  “Here. Where do you think I was?”

  “I think you were roaming across the countryside. Covered in hair like a beast from hell, you devoured two sheep from Solomon Smith’s farm.”

  “That accusation again?” Samuel feigned boredom.

  “Everyone knows the stories, Whittle. During the battles, wherever you were stationed, the beast appeared.”

  “He was always stationed with General Washington,” Paul interjected, “yet I see no one accusing him of being a beast.”

  “Except for the men who served under him,” grumbled a man from the back of the crowd. “But Washington is an honest man without curses heaped upon him by members of his own family.”

  “Think about what you’re saying. Does he look like a demon to you?”

  “You don’t need to defend me, Paul.” Samuel held each of his accusers’ gazes in turn. “I know what I am and what I am not.”

  “I say we kill him now,” continued the leader. “Save us any more loss of livestock, or more important, our own lives.”

  Everyone’s gazes turned to yet another man approaching on horseback. Beneath his cloak, the newcomer wore the collar of the clergy.

  “Please talk to them,” Maggie begged the reverend. “They want to kill Mr. Whittle.”

  “I told you men that violence begets violence,” the reverend snapped. “Without proof, you cannot accuse this man.”

  “I’ll give you the proof.” The leader glared. “Lock him in the jailhouse during the next full moon and watch him turn into the devil’s hound. If we don’t, more than sheep might be lost next time.”

  “Edgar.” The reverend pointed at the leader. “If you would stop and listen for once in your life instead of inciting trouble, you might learn something. The killer was found. It was a lynx that had wandered in from the woods. Thomas Williamson shot it this morning. All of you go home and leave this man in peace.”